


Hi Dad, I'm Peter

by enzhe



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Domestic Avengers, I Don't Even Know, Irondad, Peter Parker has a tons of parents and they all love and protect him, Peter Parker is Tony Stark's Biological Child, Tony Stark Gets a Hug, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, characters may be added, maybe pepper/tony, maybe steve/tony, spider son, there are so many things I'm supposed to be doing instead of writing this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2020-11-28 08:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20963612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enzhe/pseuds/enzhe
Summary: What do you do when a spider bite gives you freaky wall-climbing superpowers? Introduce yourself to the dad who doesn't know you exist, that's what.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I should be writing my other fics.  
Scratch that, I should be doing grad school application stuff.  
In a fit of desperate fear and procrastination, I wrote this instead.  
oh well. enjoy :)

“He’s still climbing.”

“How do you know we’re looking at a  _ he? _ ”

“I don’t. Fifty S’mores Pop Tarts says I’m right.”

Bruce sniffs in disdain. “Now you’re just trying to get the Other Guy to show. Grow up, Clint.”

_ “Woooow, this really, really, really high! Okay, okay, don’t look down--just don’t look down--shoot, this wind--” _

“Our intruder also sounds in tremendous need of growing up,” Thor observes solemnly. “Regardless of such unimportant details as gender, that is a child. And you shall not harm a child nor touch my Pop Tarts, Clint.”

“ _ Bruce _ is the one who’s gonna have to pay up--”

“A child that can climb a thousand feet without grapnel or any visible tech,” Natasha says grimly. Tony looks between her and the holographic feed JARVIS projects from the Tower’s security cams, anxiety prickling up his spine, down his arms. She’s right. And Thor’s right. That’s a kid, or something that looks and sounds like a kid--110 lbs and shivering like crazy, if J’s data is right, and J is always right--and it’s crawling up his tower. Literally. No ropes, no magnetic handholds or propulsion tech or any of the other wild possibilities his brain has tried to explain this with so far. It’s just-- _ sticking. _

And it’s strong. Really fucking strong. Has done the equivalent of about a thousand pull-ups, talking to itself the whole way--or he assumes it’s done this the whole way. They didn’t even know it was  _ there _ until six minutes ago, when JARVIS put an end to their cozy daily dinner death threats by announcing that something was blipping in the advanced security monitoring system he’s still building into the residential floors. 

_ Alien or plucky raccoon? _ Clint had guessed, grinning. 

What they’re looking at might be a whole lot closer to the former than anyone wants it to be.

_ “Almost there, almost there--c’mon, Peter, you got this, Peter--” _

Either JARVIS is doing a shit job of enhancing the broken bits of audio Nat’s carefully-lowered stealth-mic thingy is picking up, or the thing scaling his wall is called Peter. Or it’s in cahoots with something called Peter. What’s worse--a chipper mutant talking to itself in third person, or a chipper mutant talking through an invisible com to  _ more mutants? _

“Be ready for anything,” Steve says tersely, jogging back into the room complete with shield and captain’s voice. He’s taking this more seriously than anyone else, and Tony wants to tease him for it, but he’s a little too worried that he’s right. 

_ “The intruder is scaling Iron Man’s landing platform,”  _ JARVIS announces, splitting the holograph feed to show two different camera angles of their scrawny, hoodie-clad invader doing exactly that. It’s upside-down, clinging--apparently effortlessly--by finger-and-socked-toe tips. “ _ ETA 30 seconds.” _

Tony sighs. Activates the armor casing he slid out from under the couch. Lets it unfold over him, JARVIS greeting him wryly as his face is covered and the HUD lights up. “Open up to the platform, J,” he orders. Teammates fall into place around and behind him--Brucie hangs back, but not too far. Hopefully this doesn’t end with Hulk tossing what looks like a kid off the Tower. Or what looks like a kid tossing  _ Hulk _ off the tower. He doesn't even want to imagine what the PR for that would look like. 

Three layers of doors hiss open. Chilly NYC air whips in. A slight, shivering figure clambers over the lip of the landing platform. A hooded head pops up. Big brown eyes blow wide, staring right into Tony’s ready-to-fire repulsor. 

“Freeze!” shouts Steve, and their wall-crawler does exactly the opposite: yelps in alarm, throws up empty palms, topples backwards onto its butt--and almost off the Tower. 

“I come in peace, I come in peace!” it shouts, and its voice is even  _ higher.  _ Tony’s weaponized palm lowers of its own accord. He can’t shoot at something that sounds like knee-high kids playing tag in a park, not unless it shoots first. “Wow,  _ wow-- _ y-you’re all here! You--you’re here...” and he’s staring worshipfully up into Iron Man’s mask. 

Steve steps in front of Tony. “What are you, and what are your intentions here?” 

Nat’s moving protectively closer on Tony’s other side. It’s like they never remember that  _ he’s _ the one encased in literally bullet-proof armor, unlike their very attractive but significantly less protected asses. He can’t deny that the way the...kid/mutant/terrifyingly innocent and awe-stricken-looking  _ something _ is staring at him is more than a little unsettling, though. 

“I’m--I’m Peter,” it says, confirming that it was, indeed, cheering itself on in third person. “P-peter Parker.” And there’s a blush, and a brave-but-terrified smile, and  _ fuck, _ Tony can’t do this. Maybe they’re being bamboozled by the Great Master Alien Bamboozler, or maybe there’s a kid with superpowers he probably didn’t ask for here to beg his way into the Superhero Club. The latter becomes even more probable as JARVIS supplies a high school registration page for a Peter Parker from Queens, complete with a photo that is a 99% match of face Tony’s looking at. 

Tony rectracts his helmet. “We’re taking this inside,” he announces. “C’mon, kid, on your feet. Try not to shiver so hard you vibrate off the platform on your way in.”

“He hasn’t answered the more important question,” Steve says brusquely, sidestepping stubbornly to keep himself in front of Tony. “What do you want, kid? If you even are a kid--”

“I’m not a kid!” The 100%-just-confirmed-himself-as-a-kid squeaks, scrambling to his full (short) height. His entire body is trembling. “I’m a freshman! I’m f-fourteen!”

Even Nat’s stance has eased. “A dangerously chilled freshman,” she says, lips quirking. “I agree with Tony.” She turns her back, leads the way inside. Clint shrugs and follows. Thor extends a courteous hand to their intruder-turned-guest. 

“I’m touching Thor’s hand,” Peter Parker breathes, watching his own small hand disappear into Thor’s hearty grip with reverent wonder. “Oh my god.  _ Oh my god.  _ Wait. Is that offensive? Because you  _ are  _ a god? I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean--it’s such a--such an honor to meet you, sir, you have  _ no idea _ \--hooooly cow, you’re even better-looking in person--okay I need to stop talking--thank you so much, Mr. Thor God-of-Thunder Sir--”

The fact that Steve is still managing to look at the kid as a threat while Thor ushers him past, clearly already charmed, is something Tony is going to tease him about forever_._ _Remember when that preschooler showed up at our door and you did the whole You-Shall-Not-Pass schtick? _he’ll say, once he’s come up with a way to make it sound even more ridiculous._ Bristled at him all through his grand unveiling as a giddy fanboy--_

\--but the kid’s gone suddenly silent, is staring up at Tony with something so intensely longing in his too-expressive eyes that Tony has a sudden urge to command his armor back on, rather than let it finish folding into its case. 

Steve’s shoulder bumps gently into his. “You don’t know him, do you?” he whispers. “I don’t like the way he’s looking at--”

“That’s why I’m here!” the kid blurts, apparently hearing every word Steve very quietly said. The doors to the launchpad thwip shut behind them, and he jumps in apparent alarm, twisting to look at his blocked exit before turning desperately back to Tony. “I know you don’t know me--that’s why--I just wanted to see--to see...”

“See what?” asks Bruce mildly, stepping nearer now that it seems that violence isn’t imminent. 

_ “Ohmygod you’re Bruce Banner,”  _ Peter Parker gushes, then jerks his head to stare at Thor in horror--” _ oh no _ I did it again, I really truly apologize! I just-- _ Dr. Banner-- _ ”

“It is of no consequence, young stripling,” Thor intones graciously. 

“Did you just call him  _ stripling? _ ” asks Clint, delighted. “Kid’s gonna get totally the wrong idea.”

“But he is truly a youth in his prime with great physical strength,” Thor starts, confused--

“ _ Chatter, _ ” hisses Steve, like they’re clogging up coms during battle. “You wanted to see  _ what _ , kid?”

The kid’s entire body curls defensively in. His voice gets smaller, too. He’s still shivering. 

But the flex of his jaw is definitely determined. “My dad,” he says, almost too soft to hear, and he looks carefully around, taking all of them in--the Avengers assembled, all staring at him--shrinks a little more. Seems like this ridiculously brazen and (and also incredibly brave, but kids are dumb like that) thing he’s done is really starting to catch up with him. “I didn’t expect everyone to be here,” he says. Darts nervous eyes back to Tony, blushes bright red. 

_ No. _

_ No. No, he’s not going to say it. It’s not true, it’s impossible, he’s going to point at Clint or Thor or--this  _ would _ make more sense if he’s, like, an alien demi-god-- _

“Mr. Stark,” Peter Parker says, stuttering a bit but still too clearly to be misunderstood, no matter how much Tony wants to misunderstand. “I know you--don’t know me, or about me, or--that’s why--your security people always stopped me before, but I got bit by a radioactive spider? Last week. I got bit by a radioactive spider last week. I know it’s crazy but--okay everything’s just crazy, but I can climb stuff now, so I thought--didn’t think enough maybe--I thought, I could just, you know, climb up here and meet you. I don’t--I don’t need anything, I just...I just wanted to meet you. And tell you. That I exist.”

Silence swallows the room in the wake of anxious rambling and big, earnest eyes. Tony’s heart is beating three times too fast. 

“Let’s go,” Natasha mutters, and she does go, dragging Clint with her. Thor stares between the kid and Tony, transfixed, but then Bruce is taking him by the elbow, tugging him away, and then it’s just Tony. And the kid. 

And Steve.

“...You said ‘dad’,” Steve says, sounding more uncertain than Tony has maybe ever heard him sound. “Right? You said that. About--about him.” He takes a step closer to Tony. “...You think Tony Stark is your father.”

“He  _ is _ ,” the kid says, a touch defiantly. “Captain. Sir. He doesn’t know about me. But it’s true.”

“Can’t be.” Tony’s already turning away. He needs a drink. And to avoid those eyes. He doesn’t want to break the kid’s heart, but facts are facts. “Don’t have kids. Never will.”

There’s a beat. A hitched breath that makes Tony even more determined to keep his back to Peter Parker, because that sounded like the kid might actually cry. 

The words that come in that young, high voice are remarkably steady, though. “Can I just--just say something? A date. I need to say a date, three times, and if it doesn’t work, I’ll leave.”

“That sounds mighty sketchy, son.” Count on Steve to call someone  _ son _ when there’s an actual paternity-related crisis happening right in front of him. Captain Emotional Intelligence, right there. 

“It’s just numbers,” Peter whispers.

“Go for it,” Tony hears himself say. They need to get this over with. Get this over with, get Happy ready with a car, make sure the kid gets safely home. They can deal with the radioactive spider stuff later. 

“1-29-2001,” Peter Parker says slowly. “1-29-2001, 1-29-2001.”

“Okay, kid--” Tony starts to say, turning--

_ You sure, Tony? _

_ Literally gave it to you in writing, Mary. _

_ It’s okay to change your mind--not about Peter, since he’s already on his way, but there’s plenty of time to decide if you want to know-- _

_ I don’t want to know. How do you know it’ll be a Peter? Isn’t it too early to tell? _

_ Mother’s instinct. Which is bullshit, I know. Maybe a Petra.  _

_ Great names. You’ll be great parents. _

_ I know you don’t want me to ask again-- _

_ Yep. I don’t. Hand over your voodoo pills, I’ve got a party to head to. _

_ ...Alright. Alright, Tony. Here. Drink the entire glass of water, there you go. You’ll have lost about six hours of conscious memory when you wake up in the morning.  _

_ Sounds like Monday to me! Cheers.  _

_ Cheers.  _

_ ...Thank you, Tony.  _

_ Thank you for this gift. Richard and I will always-- _

“Tony? Tony--! Someone get back in here--get the kid on lockdown--I don’t know what he did, but--Tony, can you hear me? Don’t even  _ think _ about moving, Peter Parker--”

“‘S’okay, Cap,” Tony mumbles. Pushes himself out of Steve’s supportings hands. 

Reaches for Peter.

“It’s true,” he says. Probably says. His mouth is too dry to speak properly. His pulse roars in his ears. Huge hopeful eyes raise to meet his. 

It’s true. 

“Hi, kid,” he says. “Steve, that’s my--my  _ son-- _ ”

The kid’s eyes fill up. He doesn’t move, though. Stays still, lifts hasty hands to dash away tears--

“Peter,” Tony whispers. “You were--you were a Peter. Not a Petra. Oh god. Oh god, Mary--”

Mary and Richard Parker are dead, Tony knows. He attended their funeral. 

He remembers a very small figure, standing stubborn and broken and brave by the casket. 

His son. Peter Parker is his son. 

His wall-climbing, radioactive spider-bitten son. 

The others have all come rushing back, answering Steve’s call. Urgent, uncertain murmurs fill the room, buzz in Tony’s ears, but all he can do is stare at Peter. 

Peter, his son.

He can’t breathe. He can’t think. 

He can’t pass out in front of his son. 

Tony flees. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm leaning heavily towards Tony/Steve for this one, so know that before you decide to continue! If that's not your thing, no worries. May you find all the Stony-free Irondad and Spiderson your heart could want. <3

_Well done, me,_ Peter chides himself miserably, pressing his arms tighter around this middle like that will squeeze the anxiety into control. _Finally meet Dad and: I broke him._

Maybe that’s not what happened. Tony Stark is—is _Tony Stark._ Inventor and superhero and world-changing genius and—he’s just super super busy. He ran off like that because he has important things to do, not because Peter is a spider-bitten freak or because he just really doesn’t want his kid to exist or—

“Hey,” says a soft voice. It’s Black Widow, and she’s touching his shoulder, and that’s soft too. She’s probably acting, because she’s the world’s best assassin-spy and that’s what she does, but she’s looking at Peter all warm and concerned and gentle and it makes his eyes sting. “You’re still pretty shivery. How about we get you something warm to eat, and maybe some hot chocolate? Or you could just curl up on the couch, there are blankets—Clint, chocolate.”

“On it,” says Hawkeye. He winks at Peter. Moves towards the kitchen part of the huge room they’ve ushered him into. There’s a table with half-eaten dinner for six, and huge sofas arranged in front of a giant entertainment center, and it’s basically the everything he and Ned have ever dreamed, except _better._

“After so mighty a climb, you are surely in need of nourishment,” Thor says, coming back out of the kitchen with a clean plate, which he immediately begins filling with some of everything from the serving dishes in the middle of the table. Peter smells lasagna, and usually that’s one of his favorites, and he actually is really hungry but—but Mr. Stark just...left. The moment he remembered, and knew who Peter was, he _left._

“He’ll come back,” Black Widow says in that same comforting voice. Peter dares a glance at her, and she smiles a little. “I can definitely see the resemblance. Bet you're braver though, huh?”

"Iron Man is brave!" Peter snaps straight, indignant. "He's braver than anyone—“ there’s a snort from the kitchen-direction that Peter thinks is probably Hawkeye. Maybe Hawkeye isn’t as cool as he’d thought. A lot of first impressions are quite panning out the way Peter had hoped. Captain American apparently hates him, for one. He stood there staring at Peter with his jaw all tight like Uncle Ben when he used to get angry, then went stalking off after Mr. Stark. 

“Iron Man is too brave, if anything,” Black Widow agrees seriously. “Tony Stark is a little less...armored. And you triggered memories, yes? Those can be very frightening.”

Well. That’s a little too true. 

“Eat up, Young Warrior,” Thor says, and another heady wave of _THAT’S DEFINITELY THOR_ overwhelms Peter. If he eats, will he be less likely to pass out from worry and wonder? The food smells fine, but...there are too many knots tying up his stomach, going all the way up his throat, he doesn’t even know if he could swallow without choking—

“Maybe just start with the cocoa,” Dr. Banner (_Doctor Banner!!!_) says mildly. “It’s...a lot, isn’t it? Meeting us all. It’s a lot for me, and I live with these guys.”

Peter fills up so full with gratitude that he has to sneakily wipe at his eyes again. He really didn’t think all the Avengers would be here. He’d just been watching the tower, like he has been for four days now, and saw Iron Man land, and thought—_this is my chance, right now, before he leaves—_actually he tried really hard not to think too much about it. He didn’t want to think his way into giving up. Not again. 

Hawkeye comes back with a huge mug of hot chocolate, marshmallows and whipped cream and fudge sauce drizzled on top, and okay—maybe he is still cool. 

It’s _amazing_ hot chocolate. 

“Good, right?” Hawkeye says knowingly. “Usually I’m making it for Natasha, and she’ll lop off a finger if I do it wrong.”

“If that was true, you wouldn’t have any fingers left,” the Black Widow—_Natasha—_says lightly. “Or toes.”

Peter looks between them uncertainly. He’s, like, 93% sure they’re joking. That other 7% sure is intriguing, though. 

Ned is gonna _flip._ Can he tell Ned about this? It’s not his spider-secret, which a lengthy list of pros and cons and several logic maps led to the disheartening conclusion that he can’t tell _anyone—_except Mr. Stark, because that was the only way he was gonna get to meet him, and maybe he could help—and now every single Avenger, because he kinda-sorta crashed their supper. And…he can’t tell Ned. If Mr. Stark doesn’t even want to talk to Peter, no way he wants anyone to know that he’s his son. 

That’s okay. It is. It’s not like Peter has reason to expect anything different. He’d hoped they could…talk, though. A little? Maybe more than once?

He always hopes too much.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, disheartened but fortified enough by the hot sweet chocolate soothing his throat to do what he can to attempt damage control. He made it all the way into the tower, he’s hanging out with the Avengers, they’re feeding him hot chocolate, this is _crazy_. “I really didn’t know you were all—that you were eating—sorry to interrupt—”

It sounds so stupid out loud, but Dr. Banner smiles kindly, Hawkeye waves it off like it’s nothing, Black Widow gives him one of those sweet, warm looks again—and Thor positively beams, waving a forkful of lasagna in cheerful acknowledgment. “It is no matter!” the God of Thunder booms. “To have an intruder who does not immediately try to harm us is a most welcome variation to our usual schedules. I do hope you’ll join us as we finish our feast.”

“Y-yeah,” Peter manages. “I-I mean, thank you. And, um. I really am sorry—”

“Moving on,” Hawkeye says, leaning forward with a glint to his eyes Aunt May would call _trouble_. “So you’re Tony’s long lost kid, huh? How’d that happen? Who’s your mom? Supermodel or super scientist, I’m guessing one of the two—better yet, both—”

“She’s dead,” Peter says, automatically falling into the total deadpan that works best at making people feel really uncomfortably aware of just how inappropriate questions like that usually are. Then he starts to feel bad, because that’s, like, borderline rude, and these are the _Avengers—_

“Huh, so’s mine,” Hawkeye says, totally comfortable. “So, scientist?”

“...Yeah,” Peter admits grudgingly. His mother was also very beautiful, but he’s not telling _Hawkeye_ that. 

Black Widow glances up from her phone. “Mary Parker, née Fitzpatrick?” 

“Uh—” _yes._ Damn, these superspies are not fooling around. Probably for the best that he didn’t try to hide that he’s got…superpowers. They’d see right through him, and definitely decide he’s a liar, and he’d probably be kicked out of the tower before Mr. Stark came back. If Mr. Stark is ever coming back. 

“Checks,” Black Widow murmurs to Hawkeye, so quietly that she probably thinks Peter can’t hear. He can hear everything though. The hum of the refrigerator, air and water moving in pipes in the walls, the breathing and heartbeats of every single person in the room, and if he really focuses—Captain America and Mr. Stark, talking in a closed room at the end of a hallway. 

He can’t do that though. He’s learned the hard way, over the past eight days, that the only way to kind-of manage his crazy-enhanced senses is to try to—spread them out, take in everything as a whole, which is as close to regulating what his body suddenly does as he’s managed to get. 

“So, radioactive spider, huh?” Dr. Banner says, sitting on the other end of the couch Black Widow sat Peter on. “I’m a bit of an expert on gamma radiation, which I’m guessing is involved, based on the results—what I mean is, if you have any questions, maybe I can, uh, maybe I can help—”

“You have helped me so much already, you have no idea,” Peter says, setting his cocoa cup down so he doesn’t spill it, knowing he’s lighting up in the geekiest of geeky ways, but he can’t help it. “I’d read your work before, of course. Well mostly excerpts and summaries, but when I started guessing what might be happening to me, I downloaded everything of yours I could find on JSTOR and the Library of Congress, and once I’d read enough, what was happening finally started to make sense—totally saved me—I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t known to look—gosh, I’m so grateful, and I have, like, a million questions—”

“You—you read my papers? You _understood_ my—?”

Peter feels his face heating up. “I mean, I—I was living it, so I had the context, but I, uh, I’ve been a fan since I was twelve—”

“_So_ Tony’s kid,” Hawkeye laughs. “How about this. You sit here at the table, get some food in you, shoot Brucie here with questions between bites—”

Peter opens his mouth to say something, but his stomach interrupts with a growl so loud that he squeaks in embarrassment instead, and then there’s really nothing to do but go sit on the chair Thor pats invitingly. And then start eating, since they’re all staring at him, and he hopes that will make them stop. 

It does. Dr. Banner sits across from him, starts asking him about symptoms, and he seems so genuinely thrilled every time Peter correctly applies his theories to what seems to be happening to him that Peter starts forgetting to be nervous. It’s like being in class, except he’s speaking with one of his top five heroes, and he’s even more brilliant face-to-face than on paper, and the hope that they’re going to figure out what’s happening to him and that his guesses so far have been right feels amazing. 

Time speeds up. But Mr. Stark doesn’t come back. 

“I need to...I need to go,” Peter says reluctantly. He’s pushing it already, and the last thing May needs right now is to worry about him missing curfew, on top of everything else. “Need to go home...”

_Sir has arranged a car to take you safely home, Master Peter,_ a disembodied British voice announces, and Peter jumps, startled, then sinks. Everything inside him shrinks. 

Dad isn’t coming back. 

He doesn’t want Peter. 

Doesn’t even want to meet him.

Peter shouldn’t have come. 

“Aw, kid, don’t worry,” Hawkeye says, looking suddenly serious. It’s a weird look on him. “Tony’ll get his head out of his ass. He’ll find you.” Next to Hawkeye, Black Widow scowls dangerously in the direction Mr. Stark left. 

Peter doesn’t say anything. Keeps his head down, stupid as it is to think they haven’t all seen the tears slipping out. He wipes his face, allows himself two careful breaths, trying to steady himself, then stands up. “Um, yeah,” he mumbles. “Gotta go. Thank you for dinner, please tell whoever made it that it was delicious. It was...it was amazing to meet you guys.” He walks forward a few steps before realizing he has no idea which way to go. The way he came in is shut, plus there was something about a car…he feels even more stuck, and it _sucks_. 

Steps come from the hallway, and Peter whips around, heart leaping with hope—but it’s not Mr. Stark. It’s Captain America. 

“Mind if I walk you to the car, kid?” he asks, looking kind of...awkward? Apologetic? “Ride the elevator with you, I mean. I owe you an apology.”

“Yeah you do,” Black Widow says, slightly less scowly. “You can tell him no, Peter.” 

Peter stares at her. He can’t tell _Captain America_ no. “Um, yes, sir,” he manages. “I mean, if you want to—I mean, thank you—”

“Here’s my email,” Dr. Banner cuts in, handing Peter a napkin with an address scribbled on it. “Shoot a message any time, okay? Questions, theories, whatever comes up. Take care, Peter.”

“Come back soon!” Thor says. He’s still eating. That’s probably how much Peter needs to start eating, if he wants to ever feel full again. 

“Sure,” Peter says weakly. He’s not coming back. 

He follows Captain America into the elevator. 

“Steve Rogers,” the Captain introduces himself like that’s something he needs to do, holding out a giant hand as the doors slide shut. Peter shakes on autopilot. “I made the wrong call when I met you, kid. I’m sorry.”

“I mean, it’s not like I’m a normal kid, not anymore,” Peter manages, after two terrible seconds of scrambling for words that are okay to reply with. “Makes sense that I’d be...a problem.”

“You’re not.” 

Peter shrugs. Keeps his head down. 

“Peter. Would you call me a problem? A freak?”

Peter’s head snaps up. “What? Of course—that’s not—”

“Spiders are a hell of a lot more natural than the machine they plugged me into,” Captain America says calmly. “Welcome to the club, kid. We’re all just a little too human.”

Peter’s always either talking way too much or fumbling without anything worth saying. Right now he’s stuck on the latter. Maybe that’s a good thing, considering how embarrassing some of the things he’s already said have been. He sort of expects Captain Rogers to fill the silence with a speech of some kind. Bracing or warning or both, like those PSAs they make all the kids watch in school. 

He doesn’t. Just stands next to Peter looking...he can’t be anxious. Peter is 98.5% that _anxious_ isn’t something Captain America can be. He has way too many muscles for that. 

They end up in an underground parking garage, Peter’s ears still popping from the speed of the elevator. Peter smiles weakly at the unfortunately familiar face of the man waiting to drive him. “H-hi, Mr. Hogan—“

With a derisive snort, Mr. Hogan turns sharply away, slipping into the driver’s seat and slamming the door. When Peter gets into the back, there’s a glass divider between him and Mr. Hogan sliding smoothly shut. 

This evening just keeps getting better and better. 

“Thanks, um, for bringing me to the car, Captain Rogers, sir,” he offers. The sooner they get going, the sooner he can get home, hide under his covers, let himself cry. 

He tried not to get his hopes up too high. He really did. 

“Listen, Peter—what you did tonight was really brave. Took guts. I respect that. And I am sorry for treating you like a threat. These days, you just—you never know. But, uh. Anyway. Give your—your dad—give him some time. Get him home safe, Happy—“ and he snaps the door shut, knocks on the car’s top, and then Peter’s leaving Stark Tower. 

About two blocks out, he twists in his seat, watching the Tower before his view is blocked by the rest of the city—sees, for a second where everything gets trapped in his throat, the gold-and-crimson streak of Iron Man taking to the skies. 

Another second: he’s out of sight. 

Peter slumps back in his seat. Feels small, sad, angry…but mostly lost. 

Oh well. He had to try, right? It was worth a try. 

Probably. 


	3. Chapter 3

# 

Leaving was definitely the right call, because Tony’s pretty sure he’s having a heart attack.

“Tony? Tony, can you—if you tell me to go away, I’ll at least know you’re breathing—”

Steve is at his door. Because of course he is. Captain Tenacious never knows when to leave well enough alone. He would shout for Steve to leave, but the fact is—he’s not actually breathing. Not well enough to make words even Steve’s superhearing will pick up on, anyway. 

_It is 6:47PM,_ JARVIS intones soothingly. _You are in your room at Stark Tower, in Manhattan, New York, New York. No threats detected._

Technically that’s true, but all these things Tony wishes he wasn’t feeling sure feel threatening. Thoughts pile on too fast to track, branching out in wild anxious fractals that layer on top of each other: the face of the boy in the living room (those eyes, those _eyes_, his _son_—), Tony’s spectacular failure as a father (he _chose_ not to know his kid existed—this is why he doesn’t have kids—), memories of Mary (this is why he has a kid). 

He wants to call Rhodey. Can’t imagine what he’ll say if he does. Wants to run back into the other room, stare at the kid, make sure he’s still there, make sure he’s real. Wants to know everything about him. Wants whatever has the highest proof in his liquor cabinet: and that, _that_ is why he can’t be a father. 

That and a billion other reasons. Why—why did he let Mary convince him—_her eyes were just like Peter’s_. 

He never could say no to those eyes. 

He’s so screwed. So, so, screwed. 

_Sir,_ JARVIS interrupts his own comforting programming to announce, _I do believe Captain Rogers is about to dismantle your door. Perhaps I could simply open it for him? Then it will be able to close again when you wish him to leave._

“Fine,” hisses Tony. Wishes he had the breath to be a heck of a lot harsher, but right now he’s struggling to get enough oxygen to keep his vision from greying out. The door immediately swings open, and not even a second later, a not-at-all cool Capsicle is at Tony’s side. 

“Shit, what did—let’s—I think we should call Helen. JARVIS, what’s happening to him? Was he attacked? Is he fighting mind control? Is he—”

And just like that, it gets a little easier to breathe. Steve has literally annoyed Tony out of hyperventilating himself to death. He cuts off J’s dry diagnosis of _“mild physical symptoms due to emotional distress”_ with a wave of his hand. “Mind control? What’re you on, Rogers—”

“I’m not ruling it out. Something happened to you when he said those numbers.”

“Something—ha, yeah. Something happened all right. I remembered that I have a kid. One I chose to forget. Steve, I—shit. _Shit._”

“Memories can be messed with,” Steve says, looking so damn concerned that Tony’s glance turns into a stare. He tries to focus—memories are playing a high-speed highlights reel, and Peter is in his living room (was in his living room, who knows—) and he sees Mary leaning back in her lab, eyes tearing up because she’s laughing so hard—

She was stubborn enough to be his friend. Like Rhodey. _Peter takes after her,_ he thinks, pure intuition, and something small and warm bubbles up amidst all the panic. “Not these,” he says quietly. Sits down on the edge of his bed, left arm tingling painfully. “These are all—regular memories. The one the kid triggered was repressed. By me, chemically and intentionally. But the rest…J, bring up everything you have on Mary Fitzpatrick, would you? From my personal files. Especially the ones I hid from myself. Take a minute to dig deep, I buried—” but Jarvis, ever efficient, already has a dozen files pinging Tony’s phone. He looks over the list, chooses an image file, projects it into blank air between them. Mary and Tony at an alumni ball, champagne flutes in hand, matching sardonic eyebrows raised at whoever’s taking the picture. 

“This is Peter’s mother?” Steve asks. The longer he looks at the picture, the harder his reaction is to read. 

“That’s Mary,” Tony agrees. “We were the only undergraduate students to earn spots as research assistants to this one hotshot prof at MIT. Beat out all the competition without ever getting mean—Mary, not me, I was worse then than I am now. Tried to be a little bit nicer, be a little bit like her, failed, obviously. ...Wish I could work with her again.”

“She’s beautiful,” Steve says quietly. “Did you—how long were you together?”

“We weren’t. She was too smart for that. She had great taste, married a great guy. Richard Parker. He was—he was dying. Huntington’s. She married him anyway—”

_Must have heard you wrong, Mary. Total aural disconnect, thought you said you want to have my baby—_

_There’s nothing wrong with my words or your hearing, Tony. Richard and I—_

_Richard and you are in love. I don’t even believe in love, and I believe in you two. Fuck, Mary, last time we talked you told me you’ll die young, that you’re only sticking around as long as he does—_

_Oh, Tony. I didn’t mean to hurt you with that—_

_But you did mean it._

_...We want a child, Tony. Maybe it’s selfish, but you can understand selfish, can’t you, darling?_

“Tony—” Steve’s hand on his shoulder is so hesitant, Tony has the urge to scratch at the barely-there warmth of it. 

“He didn’t want to pass on his genes,” he pushes on, determined to get this entire conversation out at least once, and then he can let the ’one Avenger knows, all Avengers know’ supersmart-superhearing-superspy obnoxiousness spread the story, and then he’ll never tell it again. “Parker. He—had a bit of a tight timeline, you know? And a brilliant wife who wanted him to have everything. Mary never did let limits mean much to her. I told her it was a horrible idea, but she talked me into being their donor. Still can’t believe...but that was Mary. I remember her telling me it hadn’t worked. She told me the truth, and I erased that truth, and then she lied. I made her promise—that was my condition, Steve. If it worked, if a baby was happening, she had to make sure I would forget it ever existed.”

Steve rocks back a bit, watches Tony. He looks like he’s finally, finally starting to relax from _protect at all costs_ to a place where he’ll actually listen. “Why?” he asks, tone careful—but just by the set of his shoulders, the tension in his hands, Tony knows he’s going to be stupidly stubborn about getting an answer. “Why would you want to forget?”

He doesn’t know if he wants to answer. He expects Steve to agree with him about this—Steve and Tony on the same page, miracle of miracles—he’s judging him hard for the massive fuck-up of passing on his DNA in then first place, Tony’s pretty sure. Of everyone close to him, Steve is most likely to tell Tony to stay the hell away from an innocent kid. Which Tony needs to hear. Needs to hear, and might punch Steve in the face for saying.

He wants to see Peter. See him and hear him and be close enough to—to silently celebrate that he exists, and he’s real, and Tony’s, and _Mary’s,_ and his heart _hurts_ but he doesn’t that sharpness to dull ever again. It’s almost like Mary’s not gone—not entirely. She told him she was asking him because she loved him, because she believed more of Tony in the world could only be a good thing, maybe even a save-the-world thing, and she couldn’t have been more wrong but—more of _Mary_ in the world—that’s beautiful. That’s _amazing._

“Tony,” Steve says patiently, and that is not a good sign. Patient Steve is Stubborn-as-all-hell Steve. Tony really does not want to deal with this. 

“C’mon, Steve, you shouldn’t be callous enough to make me say it. You know I can’t be a father.”

Steve frowns.

“I can’t be a father. And I couldn’t say no, not to Mary. I tried. Peter’s proof of how well that worked. Taking me out of his life by taking him out of my mind—there wasn’t a better solution, really.”

“You _are_ a father,” Steve says, the wrinkle Tony secretly dubbed _The Great Line of Confusion_ folding up his perfect forehead. He’s not really this dumb, Tony knows—Steven Grant Rogers is actually terrifyingly intelligent—but he sure does Dumb Blond well. 

“No, see, that’s the deal,” Tony says with exaggerated slowness. “I donated DNA. I did not become a parent. ‘Course that didn’t work out, because the kid _knows._ He’s not supposed to know. _I’m_ not supposed to know. Fuck. _Fuck._”

“Right. You have a son, he knows you’re his father, he climbed a thousand foot tower to meet you. If I was wrong all along and he’s as innocent as he looks, where’s the problem?”

“_Me._ It’s me, fuck you, Steve, _I’m the problem_. This some new trust-slash-communication exercise you’re pulling at a painfully inappropriate time? Because—”

“Would you _stop?_ Shit, if anyone else talked about you the way you talk about you, I’d’ve knocked them into the wall already—might still happen. Do you really not want to be a father?”

“What I want has nothing to do with—”

“You know what scared me, Tony? The way you looked at him, almost as soon as you met him. Before he dropped the whole _dad bomb_. First thing you wanted to do was protect him. He stopped being a threat the moment your brain registered him as a child, and that was dangerous. _You were acting like a parent._ Isn’t that what a father does? Protect?”

“The whole point of keeping me out of his life was to protect him—”

“By forgetting him? Really?”

The thing is: Tony cannot know that there is someone—someone he is allowed to love, is _supposed_ to love, and not ruin everything by obsessively doing just that. Him, his life, his toxic love—none of that shit should be something a kid has to put up with. 

“I don’t get it,” Steve says, all constipated-looking from an apparently gut-stopping combination of frustration and worry. “But, look—he knows, and now you know, he’s got superpowers, he came to you, whatever you decided when he was conceived is pretty much moot. What are you going to do now?”

Too pointed. Too real. Too close to the panic Tony’s heart is pumping triple-time with. “How is this any of this your business, Steve? Why are you even here?”

“You’re breathing better since I came in.”

“Yeah, well—” but he doesn’t continue. Doesn’t know how to. No matter how much he hates it, it’s true, and as irritable as he feels about Captain Perfect’s presence, being left alone with all his fear and failure is actually worse. He sits down hard on the edge of the bed, fight draining out of him, leaving emotion that is far, far more destructive. 

After several cautious seconds, Steve comes and sits next to him. Opens his mouth a couple times, changes his mind, keeps quiet. 

“JARVIS,” Tony mutters, too itchy in the silence to let it last. “How’s—what’s going on out there? Is...”

_Madame Romanov and Messieurs Thor, Barton, and Banner are keeping our endearing intruder company,_ J answers promptly. _Master Peter is currently eating lasagna and asking Dr. Banner astute questions on the long-term mutations observed in organic recipients of gamma radiation. Is that the answer you were looking for, sir?_

If only JARVIS had answers for the real questions here. Like what the fuck Tony is supposed to do. “Yeah, nice use of context there, J. ...Get ahold of Happy, would you? If the kid says something about heading out, I want him to be the one to drive him home.”

_Of course, sir._

Steve’s frown-crease deepens. “You’re not going to go talk to him?” 

There it is, the judgment Tony was expecting all along. “Because that went so well the first time? Even Dum-E learns from mistakes, Cap.”

Steve doesn’t say anything to that. He just intensifies in disappointment, and Tony hates it. “I just want to do the right thing, Steve.”

To his surprise, Steve’s entire face warms with the beginnings of a smile. “You will,” he says, and Tony is left without anything he trusts enough to let out of his mouth. This entire evening has thrown him worse than nine out of ten Avengers missions manage to do. The hologram of Mary’s knowing face still floats above his phone. He clicks it away. Browses distractedly through the other files JARVIS dug up, all too aware of Steve sitting stiff-backed beside him, not saying whatever it is he wants to say.

It’s only minutes later that J is announcing Peter Parker’s impending departure. An hour ago, Tony didn’t know the kid existed. Now he drops his phone to clamp his right hand around his left wrist, a tide of intense, irrational fear knocking all sense from his head. Maybe he shouldn’t let the kid out of the tower. Maybe he should send someone else in the car with Happy. What if someone saw him climbing the tower? What if the press is already skulking? What if a drunk driver smashes into them on the road and there’s nothing Happy can do?

“I think I’ll walk him to the car,” Steve says suddenly. “That okay, Tony? —you okay?”

No. Nope, he really isn’t. 

“Peachy perfect,” he says dryly. “Go charm him, Cap. Definitely didn’t do that the first time. All that glowering—you’re definitely the uncoolest Avenger, just so you know.”

Steve snorts indelicately. Pauses as he reaches out to open the door. “Not sure my word is worth much, seeing as I didn’t even know my own father—but I think you’ll be great one.”

The door slips shut behind him. Tony stares at it, all sorts of things inside out and upside-out inside him, until sitting still feels too much like turning into a ticking time bomb. He pushes to his feet, starts across the room—each step stretching a little longer than the last, until he’s striding out into the common room and an embarrassingly rushed speed. Keeps it up right past the varying shades of accusing, pitying, and disappointed his teammates pin him with. 

“You better be going after your kid,” Clint calls after him, not a hint of his usual humor in it. 

“Don’t do anything stupid—and yes, what Clint said,” Natasha adds, and he wonders if she’ll ever acknowledge how contradictory her advise is. Nothing from Bruce, but there’s probably be a hopeful, encouraging smile there, if Tony turns back to look for it. 

Probably. 

The blast of cold wind when he steps out onto his landing platform shocks deeper breaths into his lungs, and that helps. The armor has formed over him seconds later, and that helps, too. 

Now to build up enough courage to step out of the suit, say what he needs to say, beg a teenager for a second chance if he has to—he just has to keep his head from talking sense to his heart before he reaches Queens. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey darlings. I hope y’all are as well as possible in these upside-down times. My family has been displaced by the virus since January 20. We were traveling on holiday when it started, and are currently unable to go home due to closed borders. I know some of you may be in similar circumstances. 2+ months in, I am finally getting to a place where everything being abnormal is feeling almost normal...and am trying to do some writing to celebrate. I’m sorry, I really can’t promise prompt updates on this or any other story (I am unable to go home, am trying to work remotely so exceptionally well that my company will see me as essential and not fire me (the odds are not good, unfortunately), my kids are out of school and out of sorts...) again, I bet many of you are in a similarly sucky boat. But I’ll do what I can, and I hope this chapter brightens your day a little! Stay home, stay safe, be civic-minded, and be gentle with yourself and others—this is a wild timeline we’re trying to survive here. Best of luck to you. <3

There’s too many lights on when Peter unlocks his front door, and while that weird tingling urge to catch-hide-duck- move he’s not at all used to yet doesn’t seem to be firing up for a fight, the rest of him sure is.

He pulls out his earbuds—music was the only way to build up enough composure to not be a pathetic sobbing mess while Mr. Hogan watched him leave the car—and clenches his house key like a weapon in his fist, just like May taught him. Then thinks better of it, some of the damage he’s inadvertently done flashing through his brain, overlaid horrifically with projections of what a house key could do with the kind of force and momentum he’s capable of now behind it—someone just around the corner clears their throat— focus. Focus, Peter.

“Hey, May,” he calls out casually. Let them think he expects her to be home, that he’s not alone. That he’s not on alert. That he can’t accidentally kill someone if he’s not really, really careful.  Fuck, this is terrifying.

“Peter, it’s me,” says a halfway-familiar voice, though the uncertain caution in the tone certainly doesn’t fit with every recording Peter’s ever heard. Still, that sounds like—

Yep. Yep, that sure is Anthony Edward Stark, sperm donor extraordinaire, stepping awkwardly into view from the entryway to the living room, an Iron Man suit standing sentry behind him.

“Wha—what—but you—you—you’re  here, ” Peter stutters, and feels his whole head heat up with embarrassment and shock and fear and  hope.

“I am,” Mr. Stark says slowly, like he doesn’t quite believe it himself. “I let myself in, sorry. Didn’t want to wait out in the hall, attract too much attention, you know. You don’t need that in your life.”

And suddenly Peter is crying. It’s awful and he didn’t know it was going to happen until it already is, but something in him just  cracked and this is happening. How much he hates crying, hates crying  now and  here especially—just makes him cry harder.

Well. It’s not like he can make things much worse. He hides, pivots just enough to get his back to the wall that divides the entryway from the living room, melts helpless against it. Remembers that he’s gonna need his inhaler next, then almost laughs amidst the shuddering sobs he’s trying so hard to keep in because—he doesn’t need an inhaler. Not anymore.

Maybe never again.

“...Peter?”

Gosh, Mr. Stark sounds  so weird all tentative like that. He should—think about that, focus on that interesting anomaly, not about how stupid and pathetic his father must think he is—

“—I can go, probably shouldn’t have come—”

“No!”  Don’t go. Please don’t go. Please please please don’t go. “...Sorry. I’m sorry—please—”

“...Sure, kid. Take your time. I’ll be right here.”

I’ll be right here and  shouldn’t have come and  you don’t need that in your life. Maybe...maybe Mr. Stark is scared too.

“Sorry,” Peter whispers. “I’m sorry, I just—”

“Hey, none of this is your fault. I’m in the wrong here. You could actually get me arrested right now. Breaking and entering. Emotional distress, endangerment of a minor—”

Peter hiccup-laughs. “No offense, Mr. Stark, but without the suit, I don’t really think you’re a match for me.” And with that, he’s brave enough to peak around the wall again. See the relief spreading, the beginnings of a smile, the still-tight anxiety lines around his father’s eyes.

“Is that so? You may have superpowers, but I spar with Captain America and Black Widow on the reg. I could set that up for you, you know.”

“R-really?”

“Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. Not to you, anyway. There are plenty of other people I might—you know what, nevermind. New topic. So. So this is where you live. Nice place. Homey. Where’s your aunt and uncle? You alone often? ...Too much? Shi—shoot. Maybe I should hold off on the questions. Got any for me?”

So many questions. “May’ll be home to make sure I get to bed on time,” Peter says, glad that his voice comes out less stuttery this time. And so protective of his guardians it makes his chest hurt. “She’s with Ben.”

“Where’s Ben?”

“...Hospital.”

“God, I shouldn’t have—don’t start crying again, I’m sorry. So what time are you supposed to go to bed? Should I be clearing out before then?”

“I don’t—I don’t know,” Peter says, feeling ridiculously young and lost and confused. Which is very much the opposite of what he was going for; he strongly suspects that the more needy he comes off as, the less Tony Stark will want to do with him. And he’s really not needy. He takes care of himself all the time.

It’s just that he found out that one of his personal heroes was also his biological father, and it’s hard not to imagine how amazing it might be to—meet him, know him, maybe go to Disneyland together or something? Peter has Ben and May, and they’re the best and have always loved him and cared for him really well, so even though he barely remembers his parents, he’s never really felt like an orphan. But Ben is dying, and Peter just got bitten by a radioactive spider, and things have been feeling kind of lonely and overwhelming and exciting and...and scary. Like maybe the perfect time for a hero.

There’s a hero standing in his living room, looking just about as awkward and unsure as Peter feels.

“Um, why...why did you come?” Peter asks. Swallows down the  are you going to come again? because it’s occurring to him now that it’s very possible Mr. Stark is here to make sure Peter doesn’t go spreading his story to the press as a front page paternity scandal. Threaten him with an army of lawyers or something. He suddenly wishes May was home.

“Let’s sit down,” Mr. Stark says, and they do. It’s embarrassing because Mr. Stark sits down first and Peter freezes in place, trying to decide if he should sit on the same couch, or the winged armed chair that is unofficially May’s chair, or drag a stool from the breakfast bar— “c’mon, time’s ticking,” Mr. Stark says, patting the cushion next to him. So Peter makes his feet move, breath hitching on hope and disbelief, until he is easing down onto the sofa _literally right next to Iron Man._ His hero. His father. 

“So let’s, let’s clear the air,” Mr. Stark says, awkwardly clearing his throat. Is that what he meant by clearing the air? “The most important thing—what I came here to say—you need to know, kid, that I’m glad you exist. I know my first reaction was maybe—”

“R-really?” Peter says, glad air rushing out of him. “You mean it? You’re not—not mad?”

“I’m not _mad. _Why would I be mad?”

“Dunno,” Peter mumbles, staring hard at the carpet between his toes. It feels like the safest thing to stare at right now. “I mean, you didn’t want to remember me, and I kinda forced you to, and I c-climbed your tower, and I’m—kind of a freak—I wasn’t before, but I couldn’t climb the tower before so I couldn’t meet you when I was normal—”

“I’m not mad,” Mr. Stark says again. “I’m—I’m glad. That’s why I’m here. That’s what I came here to say.”

“Oh,” Peter says. His face is all hot again, blushing from the fierce happy fire roaring to life in his chest, and he dares a glance at Mr. Stark. At his dad. He straightens up, suddenly nervous about protecting this precious hope unfolding between them. “I won’t tell anyone,” he promises. “That I’m your son. I mean—I mean, if you don’t want me to. I swear. I won’t mess things up for you at all, I just—wanted to—” 

“Mess things up for me? You got this backwards, kiddo. Don’t worry about how you’ll mess things up for me. You won’t. But think very seriously about how I’ll mess things up for you. C’mon, you’re smart, tell me some of the issues here.”

“Um…you’re really famous?” Peter tries. “And, like, people could use me to get to you, but I’m really strong now, I can totally fight off anyone who—”

“Oh god,” Mr. Stark says, face going tight and a little gray. “You had to bring that up. Okay, yes, kidnapping, threats, ransoms, that is all part of the disgusting, ridiculous baggage that comes with the name _Stark. _Not that I’m assuming you’ll want my name or—forget the last two sentences. What I meant was: yes, fame. Which means: zero privacy, everyone wanting a piece of you, people analyzing and mocking and straight-up lying about every move you make, every word out of your mouth—for money or entertainment or politics. You never know who you can trust, there are expectations no innocent kid should ever have on his shoulders—it never goes away. Ever.”

“I can keep a secret,” Peter says. If May looked at his face right now, she would do that weird sigh that manages to be both annoyed and loving at once, and mutter something about how ridiculously stubborn Parkers. He should probably try to make a better impression on his dad. But— “No one knows about the spider, for example. Except you, and all the Avengers, but I didn’t know they would be there, and—well—” his great defense kind of stammers into nothing. 

Back to glaring at the carpet. Hopefully hard enough to not let any stupid tears through.

“You really want this, huh?” Mr. Stark says softly. 

Peter looks up, just a tiny bit. ****

“I—yeah,” he says. Swallows hard. Gathers all his courage. “It’s fine if you don’t, I mean, at least I got to meet you, but if we could just—if I could just—know who you are? Like who you really are. A little bit. Like maybe I could text you sometimes? I don’t need anything else, I don’t even exactly _need_ that, totally get if you’re too busy…”

“I have a ridiculous urge to scoop you up and whisk you off to the tower and never let you out of my sight ever again,” Mr. Stark says. His mouth quirks up, like he’s almost laughing at himself, but he also—really genuinely means it. Peter can tell. A smile he can’t stop starts right in his core, bounces around like crazy inside him, tips up his face. “But I won’t,” Mr. Stark continues, and he’s smiling back, just a little bit, but—soft. Like he means it. “Gotta—do this right. As right as I’m capable of. Yes, we can text. And, um, hopefully work out more than that, with permission from your guardians, and we’ll figure out how to deal with any spider-related issues you’re up against, and find out what your favorite things are because I’m going to buy all of them, and have you thought about colleges yet? Because MIT is—”

The front door clicks open. Peter jumps guiltily. “Aunt May!” He calls out, way too excited and way too loud. “You’re home! There’s, um, someone here who—uh—”

“Hey, baby,” she calls back, and he hears her hanging up her coat and purse, shuffling out of her shoes, sighing away stress so she can bring him a big bright smile. “You eat yet? I picked up hot dogs from the corner stand, I’ll cook you a real meal soon, I swear, eat a yogurt or something with it so we can pretend you’re eating healthy—someone what? Did you say someone’s here—?”

She comes around the corner. Looks at Mr. Stark, who is standing now, and Peter, who is suddenly ten times more subject to gravity, the weight of _consequences_ welding him firmly to the couch. Three carefully-balanced, all-the-works, steaming hot wieners splat unceremoniously to the floor. May’s stare whips back to Peter. Her hands clap over her hanging-open mouth just in time to smother a swear.

“What the _f—?_”


End file.
